


That's How It Sleeps

by s0urstark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dead Joffrey Baratheon, Feminization, Forced, Ghosts, Hurt No Comfort, Incest, M/M, No Lube, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 02, Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, What Have I Done, Writer hates this as much as you do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0urstark/pseuds/s0urstark
Summary: Tommen receives a visitor in the middle of the night.





	That's How It Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, I'm aware of how fucked up this is, but it was in my brain and I needed to get it down or it wouldn't leave me alone.  
> Title is from It Will Come Back by Hozier, sorry for attaching you to this, forest king.

Tommen wakes up suddenly with a jolt, and the distinct feeling that there's someone in the room watching him. His skin crawls with that feeling, the soft, light hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Margaery lies beside him, warm and fast asleep. It's not her watching him. Her gaze never feels like this, like he was being curled inside out, all of him exposed. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up, rubbing his eyes and glaring into the darkness around him. There can't be anything in the room, not with the guards stationed outside. There's no such thing as scary figures in the dark. He's not a child, clutching his mother because he'd heard a frightening story.

Tired green eyes drag across every dim inch of the room, trying to press into dark corners where the shadows are thick.  _ It's a trick,  _ Tommen tells himself,  _ You're tired.  _ He can't see anything beyond the fuzzy, indistinct shapes of furniture, no terrifying monster lurking behind the chair or crouched on the chest. It's only himself and Margaery in the room, and he should follow her lead and go to sleep. But the feeling doesn't leave.

Margaery rolls over beside him, turning so he can see her face, soft and beautiful and lit by the moonlight streaming through the open curtains. It makes it all the more tempting to lay back down with her, lay a hand over her hip, let his heavy eyelids rest.

Until he hears the soft tap of boots.

Tommen’s head snaps up quickly, fast enough to catch a dark shadow emerging from the shadows. It's the shape of a boy, not much bigger than himself, not the terrifying beast he'd imagined. The call for one of the guards lays on his tongue, it's almost past his lips when-.

“I thought you'd miss me.”

The words die in his throat and his blood runs cold. That sneer brings back a flood of memories, dark and mean - a sharp tongue, a sharper hand. It makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“You're dead.” Tommen whispers, his voice strangled.

A quiet scoff sounds and those footsteps sound again. Joffrey’s face is bathed in the same sickly pale moonlight. It's not the face Tommen saw in the crypt, tenderly washed with its eyes closed. This a grotesque mask of death, eyes bloodshot and ringed with scarlet, lips flecked with blood, chin covered in a light film of bile that glistened sickeningly, burst blood vessels all over. A cruel smile curls over that mouth and those eyes meet Tommen’s.

“Not quite, baby brother.”

Tommen can feel his lip quivering, no matter how much he tries to stop it.

“Poor thing. Are you frightened?” Joffrey puts on a whimper, but the smile doesn't fade.

“I'm not afraid.” Tommen tries to sound firm, but his voice shakes.

Joffrey tilts his head and takes a step forward. Tommen can't help himself from pushing himself further back against the headboard. A laugh spills from the ghost’s lips, it sounds like metal on glass.

“Don't come any closer.” His sword is closer to Joffrey than it is to him, it won't do him any good.

Another step. But Joffrey pauses, his gaze sliding over to Margaery, his face screwing up in distaste.

“Taking my room, I can take. My crown, I can understand. But my wife?” 

Tommen places a hand on her shoulder, as if trying to protect her the best he can. Joffrey's face screws up further, and he walks to the end of the bed, leaning over, closer to Tommen than he liked.

“Do you like fucking my scraps, Tommen?” He spits.

Tommen opens his mouth to speak, protect Margaery's honour. But nothing comes out.

Joffrey smiles again, and up close, Tommen can see the blood settled in the cracks of his teeth. “Have you even fucked her yet?”

“Yes!” Tommen is nothing short of defensive, and he notices belatedly that's what Joffrey wants.

Joffrey pushes himself up on the bed with ease, kneeling a few feet from his brother, looking at him with pity.

“Did she have to show you where to put it? Could you even get hard?”

Tommen feels his face get hot.

Joffrey shifts his attention to the sleeping woman, one hand reaching out to jerk the sheets off of her. Margaery hums softly, reaching a hand down to paw lightly at the fabric. She looks beautiful as ever, her hair in light, messy waves over her shoulders, her skin lit by the same moon that makes Joffrey look even more horrid. 

Tommen shifts forward, one hand outstretched. “Don't touch her.”

“Would you rather I touch you instead?” Joffrey’s voice is soft, honeyed, and Tommen hates it.

“You- You can't touch me. You're not  _ real. _ ” He cowers away regardless.

“Do you think I'm a ghost, baby brother? A bad dream? I'm  _ very  _ real.” 

Joffrey reaches out slowly, toying with his prey, and Tommen tries to push himself away despite his claim. A cold, clammy hand lands on the younger Baratheon's wrist. A scream withers away to nothing in his throat.

“Get off me. Get off.” He gasps, trying to shake his brother off, but the hand grasping him is strong.

The twisted smile doesn't leave Joffrey's face for a second. He grips Tommen’s other wrist, dragging the boy down, closer. Tommen struggles and writhes and kicks, but that doesn't help.

“I was always stronger than you.” Joffrey's head dips close to Tommen's ear and he speaks in a low whisper.

“Please, Joffrey.” The weakness in his voice is a telltale sign he's about to start crying, and sure enough, when Joffrey pulls back slightly, Tommen's eyes are wet.

“I can't believe they made you king,” Joffrey snarls, “You're weak. I suppose Mother is ruling for you.”

Tommen keeps struggling, and soon the tears spill, making silver tracks down his cheeks. “Please let me go. I'm afraid. I said it. I'm scared of you. Let go.”

Joffrey laughs again, and blood bubbles on his lips. He surges down quickly, pushing his lips against Tommen's. It's messy and spiteful, he doesn't let up despite the struggling and the grunts from beneath him. Tommen can taste blood and bile in his mouth and it makes him ill.

When he pulls back, the boy king is sobbing, tears flowing freely, and he doesn't have it in him to fight any longer. There's blood smeared across his mouth and his breath comes in horrible little hiccups.

“What do you want?” Tommen can barely speak.

“I want to fuck my wife. I never got to feel her cunt. But you've decided to take her place.” Joffrey spoke matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather.

“Please don't.” He whimpered.

“I think you'll be tighter than her.” Joffrey continued as if Tommen hadn't spoken at all, “You can be my pretty bride tonight, baby brother. Make sure you don't scream. You don't want to wake her. But keep crying. It keeps my cock hard.” 

Tommen finds another well of strength and tries fighting Joffrey again, jerking his wrists and forcing his knees into his brother's torso. It doesn't make a difference. In fact, it spurs Joffrey on further, leaning close to lay sloppy, bloody mouthed kisses on Tommen's jaw and neck. He pins down those small wrists with one hand, using the other to tug at Tommen’s breeches. The boy kicks fiercely, but once his breeches are down around his knees, he can barely move his legs.

“Joffrey, please. You can't-.”

A harsh slap cuts Tommen off right there. His cheek burns with the force of it, and he's sure it's bright red. It shuts him up and stops his sniffling and tears, his mouth open in surprise.

“I can do what I want.” Joffrey hisses, “ _ I  _ am king. The rightful king. You will address me as such.”

He thumbs lightly at Tommen's lip, and he bares his blood streaked teeth as an idea occurs to him. 

“Keep your mouth open, whore. If you bite me, you'll wish you were dead. Do you understand?”

Tommen frowns and says nothing.

“I didn't think you were stupid too.” Joffrey rolls his eyes, “I'm going to fuck your mouth. You'll get my cock nice and wet. You don't get wet like women do, so you'll want to do a good job. Now do you understand?”

Tommen presses his lips tight together, clenching his jaw hard. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up or something. But it's not working. He can still feel Joffrey's weight on him, feel those fingers trying to pry open his mouth.

“So stupid.” Joffrey tuts. 

He shifts his weight up further, sitting on his brother's chest. There's a rustle of fabric, but Tommen doesn't open his eyes to see what's going on. Soon, he feels fingers pinching at his nose. 

_ Just die right here, you coward. Don't you dare let him,  _ Tommen chants in his mind. He can't let this happen. He'll let his breath flutter in his lungs. He'll let Margaery wake up tomorrow morning beside his corpse. Or so he hopes, until, against his will, his mouth drops open to get a large lungful of air. Instead of air, he gets a mouthful of flesh, cold and thick and heavy. His eyes fly open, and they land on Joffrey's face - he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyebrows are furrowed. The cock in Tommen's mouth forces itself further and makes him choke, sputtering. 

“Maybe I should finish down your throat. No wine would be able to take the taste out.” 

Tommen whimpers around Joffrey, more tears falling down his face. It hurts, because Joffrey fucks into his throat ruthlessly.

“No. No, I don't think so. I need to leave my seed in my pathetic little wife. You'll be my breeding bitch.”

Joffrey laughs before he pulls out of Tommen's mouth. Tommen's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, coughing and gagging at the taste lingering in his mouth.

Joffrey takes his cock in hand, giving it a few tugs.

“You can do something right, apparently. I'm nice and slick for you. Are you ready for our consummation, Lady Baratheon?” He's taken on that sweet tone again, and he tilts his head.

Tommen shakes his head and tries to give his elder brother a shove, hands in the centre of his chest. Joffrey's hands find their way around Tommen's throat just as quickly, firm but not yet squeezing.

“Stop fighting me. You're not going to win.” He still sounds sweet, and Tommen lets out a weak, hoarse sob.

“Are you going to take my cock now, my lady?”

Tommen says nothing, his lips quivering again.

Joffrey starts to squeeze, applying the slightest amount of pressure.

Tommen gasps, his hands flying to pull at Joffrey's desperately. He can still wheeze, but he knows it's only going to get tighter and the idea terrifies him.

“This isn't your way out, Tommen. I'm not going to kill you.” But that doesn't stop him from continuing to press his hands around the young king's throat.

“Say it. Are you going to take my cock?”

“Yes.” The word is barely understandable and it tastes bitter. Tommen didn't want to say it.

“Yes, who?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace.”

The hands around his neck are gone, and he coughs hard, his breath rattling in his chest like a dying man.

“Good girl.”

Joffrey moves to sit between Tommen's legs, forcing his breeches further down and his knees further apart. His cold hands spread Tommen's cheeks apart, exposing his little pink hole.

“You know, they say if your wife doesn't bleed when you take her for the first time, she's not a virgin. Now, I know you don't suck cock like a whore, so I'm expecting blood. If I have to fuck you hard to get it, well…” Joffrey lets his sentence hang in the air between them, unfinished, his grin nearly splitting his face in two.

He leans down and spits against the hole, watching the muscle quiver. He lines up his cock, the head resting against the warm ring.

He glances up, meeting Tommen's horrified eyes. “Remember, don't scream.”

With that as his warning, Joffrey forces his way into Tommen's body, slamming into him hard. The younger Baratheon barely holds back his scream, biting hard into his cheek and tasting blood on his tongue. It hurts, it burns, a stretch he'd never experienced before. His vision dims for a moment, his eyes unfocused as the pain takes over him.

“You are tight. I fit so well, it's like you were made for my cock.” Joffrey groans, leaning back down to kiss over Tommen's face.

He turns his head to try and get away from them, laying eyes on Margaery, who's still peacefully asleep. The burn in his ass is joined by the ache in his chest as he looks over his wife's face. Was this what it was like for her? Painful and horrific, an act she sat through simply because it was her duty as a wife? She sounded like she enjoyed it, but it all could've been an act.

“You're bleeding, wife. Isn't that wonderful? You're not worthless after all.” 

Tommen gives a weak sob in reply.

“Now we need to see if you'll give me a son.” Joffrey lays a hand on Tommen's stomach, “I'll put a strong little prince in you. Would you like that?”

Tommen knows what's expected of him this time, and he nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Joffrey fucks into him faster, and Tommen wonders how he hasn't started yelping yet. The slap of skin on skin is loud, and Joffrey grunts with each thrust. Tommen wants to block it all out but he  _ can't. _

“If you want it so much, beg for it.” Joffrey whispers. “Beg for it, and I won't wake up Margaery and put a baby in her instead.”

Tommen's breath hitches with another sob and he tries to speak. “P-p-ple-please, Your Grace. I w-want to have your… your pr-prince.”

Joffrey's lip curls in a look that isn't very pleased. “A pitiful attempt.”

Tommen whimpers.

“But it is our first night together. I'll take it. Aren't I a generous king?”

“Yes, Y-your Grace.” 

Joffrey grips Tommen's thighs hard, digging in his nails as his thrusts get deeper, pressing each inch of his cock into his brother, and the boy underneath him whines like an injured dog.

“I'm going to finish soon. And you'll fall asleep with my seed inside you, and wake up with my prince inside you.”

Tommen only nods. He can barely breathe in order to speak.

Joffrey begins to lose his rhythm, but he doesn't stop.

“I am the rightful king. You are my bitch, Lady Baratheon. I'll be back every night until you give me my heir. I'll put my seed in you, just as you put your seed in my wife.” 

Joffrey falls into incoherence the closer he gets, until eventually, the movement of his hips stutters and he spills over with a groan. Tommen can only give a weak whimper. He can't even move to escape the horrible feeling of seed filling his hole.

“Good girl.” Joffrey murmurs, laying another sloppy kiss on Tommen's lips. 

Tommen stares up at the ceiling.

Joffrey slowly pulls his softening cock out of Tommen's ass. 

“Open your mouth, my lady.” 

There's a moment of hesitance before he does as he's told, his lips parting as he screws his eyes shut and waits. The weight on the bed shifts and soon, the same cock, this time wet, is pushed into his mouth. It tastes foul, and it twitches, but Tommen doesn't fight. There isn't any fight in him anymore. He's not sure what Joffrey wants, but he's eventually satisfied and pulls out.

“I'll be back tomorrow night. Are you excited to see me again?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good girl. Now, pull your breeches up. I can't have my lady looking like a common whore.”

Joffrey gets off the bed, finally, and Tommen moves with limbs of lead to pull up his breeches. He can feel Joffrey's seed leaking out of him, and it begins to soak into his breeches when they're on properly again. It feels disgusting -  _ he  _ feels disgusting, defiled. It's like his throne has been ripped from him, by a ghost no less. The ghost of his older brother, always so terrifying, the bully that had terrorised him as a child and continued to now.

“Good night, my lady. Sleep well.” 

Tommen is silent, he simply watches Joffrey step back towards the shadows and slowly melt back into them, fading out of sight. The burn and the seed inside him doesn't disappear, it's horribly present, and he's made to endure it all. But there's nothing he can do, nobody he can tell. So he rolls over, moulds himself against Margaery's back and closes his eyes. A light, warm hand rests over his wrist, not the hand of a dead boy, the hand of his wife who is very much alive, and she murmurs quietly in her sleep.

Tommen doesn't fall asleep again.


End file.
